


Cratering

by flayrie



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Angst, Civilian AU, Contemporary AU, Drama & Romance, F/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:34:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26946781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flayrie/pseuds/flayrie
Summary: [Enlisted Civilians AU] Each snapshot he sends hangs on the fridge, suspended by enamel fruit magnets bought in more promising days. The paint's fading to white on most of them but they can still perform their intended purpose. She can't say as much about herself.
Relationships: Treize Khushrenada/Lady Une
Comments: 11
Kudos: 7





	Cratering

**Author's Note:**

  * For [simulacraryn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/simulacraryn/gifts).



Disarray reigns over Une's dressing table as it has for many months. Pretty little perfume bottles are scattered among other trinkets, laid out with as much care as captured chess pieces felled and taken to the board's wayside. _They took me out too soon._ Five years of service and sacrifice led to naught. This little pawn had made it to the edge of the board and raised itself up only to be thrown out of the game in one fell swoop. Sunset streams through the window, pink and orange light offering softness and warmth before cool dusk. She watches the light filter through the small bottles laid before her, sunbeams playing at the specters of rainbows against varnished wood. There was a time when she could appreciate the beauty in such things. Her fingers curl around a bottle the size of the fist beating against her rib cage. Without a thought, she whirls around and throws it to the floor with as much force as she can muster.

Carpeting cushions its fall, offering her no reward but a dull thump. The cap couldn't even find the decency to fly off. Bottom lip quivering, she claps both hands over her mouth before turning back to her mirror. It's not often that she indulges her rage. Medication tends to keep her placid enough. This time, she finds calm in the sapphire gleaming on her ring finger. Her reflection lowers her hands, eyes glancing down at twinkling blue as she sits by her vanity. What had she even meant to do when she first came to perch here?

She wears the twinkle in his eye on her hand. Treize had said as much when he sank to one knee and asked her to be his wife. _Five years. Half a decade. Before the war._ It had started innocuously enough. Peace talks over disputed territory. Pundits arguing over political agendas on television served as background noise while they ate breakfast. War was a thing for deserts and distant jungles and cities she didn't live in. They never expected it to come knocking at their door.

But knock it did. It knocked with a battering ram, with a deafening call to arms, with a list of demands. He complied and she... _I could have refused._ But she could not play Penelope. He was not Odysseus. Foolishness compelled her to enlist alongside him, hoping against hope that they might find themselves together despite the hail of gunpowder and shrapnel that was sure to come. She never expected the war to put an ocean between them, to take her to the ruins of one city while he faced carnage in another.

Once a week, she'd hear his voice on the comm channel. Ten precious minutes every seven days. The distorted signal made his words fizzle with static but she knew, somewhere out there, his lips were moving, perhaps even curving into a smile. It was enough to live on. Sometimes, they wrote letters. When the fighting grew fierce and the comms went down, putting a pen to paper offered her solace. She bought a small bottle of perfume in every city she visited, laying a spritz on each letter. Roses, citrus, sandalwood, spice. Sending sensation through scent by post. It was frivolity but she'd thought herself clever then.

Five years. In all that time, she knew him only through sound and snapshots. Each picture was always more haggard than the last, accompanied by a letter that always ended with "When this is over..." But it just kept on going.

It's still going. The only difference is she can no longer partake. It's something she dreams about on quiet nights, curled up in a bed meant for sharing. _Insurgents stormed the base. They treated us no better than hunters treat game._ When she was made to recount the events of that day, it always felt like she was telling someone else's story. _I stood my ground until I ran out of ammo. That's all._ A shot to the chest and another to the stomach. That's what she got for her service. No matter how high one rises in the ranks, injury and death serve their constant purpose as great equalizers. She doesn't even remember going down. The buzzing of a crowded army hospital ward heralded the end to her misguided military career. When he called her after she woke, she lied through her teeth about where she was and what had happened. _You were misinformed. I'm fine. Just couldn't find the time to get to the comms._ Soon after, she wrote to him about being discharged without stating the reasons. She wasn't his wife. He wasn't entitled to know. Besides, she had other matters to manage. Forcibly discharged or not, she owed her respects to everyone under her command, every man and woman she had failed. She made a point to make every family phone call for each fallen comrade, taking each hurtful word on the line like the lash of a whip toward penance. It wasn't enough. It would never be enough.

Now that she's home, she still writes. He still calls. Each snapshot he sends hangs on the fridge, suspended by enamel fruit magnets bought in more promising days. The paint's fading to white on most of them but they can still perform their intended purpose. She can't say as much about herself. The woman now combing her long brown hair in the mirror isn't terrible to behold. Most of the warmth has left her hazel eyes but there's a faint glint to rival the fading ember on a struck match. Her mouth forms a thin line, unplumped by lipstick. She watches the tines running through her tresses, catching the last rays of sunlight as darkness descends. He'll have something nice to look at for as long as he doesn't stare too closely. Under her bathrobe, the bullet scars on her chest and stomach are clear as day. Her hands are no longer soft, raw from handling artillery. The ghosts of countless tiny cuts and scrapes mark her arms and legs. Cosmetic differences he might be able to see past. But what about the inside?

She puts her comb down, cringing and closing her eyes tight as she rests a hand on her belly. Though the wound has long-healed, she can still feel the specter of pain whenever she touches the scar. _He won't come home. Not to me. Not to this._

It's been weeks since he last called and no letters have come to her postbox. If he'd been killed in action, they would tell her, wouldn't they? No. They'd tell his mother. _We aren't married. I don't have that right._ His mother hasn't said much either. Whatever might have happened, he's still alive. He has to be. Or would his mother soon hear from the careless commander who led him to his end? That would be karmic, wouldn't it?

She opens her eyes and curls her hand around the comb once more. His voice plays in the back of her head, whispering her name. He stands behind her, frozen in the doorway, confined to a corner in the mirror that now has her gaze transfixed. Her head slowly begins to shake and her hands tremble, letting the comb drop.

“Cordelia.”

He whispers her name like a prayer to the God she no longer believes in.

Fear keeps her from turning her head. She needs to still herself, to will away the vision before her. He isn't here. He can't be. Blink as she might, his reflection doesn't vanish from her vanity. Either the pills are losing their potency or... does she really dare to hope? Many a dream has come and gone with this hope brought to life behind closed eyelids. It always ends with an empty bed and a tear-stained pillow.

It's strange hearing his voice uncorrupted by static. He whispers her name once more and the word rests heavy on her ears. On his lips, it sounds like an intimate endearment. No rank. No formality. The only other people who had ever called her that... well, they were long gone. Lucrezia went down during the assault on the base. Just hopped out of bed and barricaded herself in the armory. She died in the clothes she'd been sleeping in before everything went to hell, tanktop and pajama bottoms riddled with bullets. One couldn't have asked for a better lieutenant. Duty never sleeps. And Sally... the infirmary never stood a chance. Monsters murdered the good doctor's patients in their beds before they turned to her. _We do our best to carve out someplace safe amid all the turmoil but there's no way to stay in the eye of the storm. Sooner or later, we have to face the wailing of the wind._

Still not daring to speak, she offers his reflection a blank stare. Before they parted, his hair had been a messy mass of short copper gold. The army made quick work of that, giving him a buzzcut that stayed constant in his snapshots. The man behind her hasn't had a haircut in a while. She remembers running her fingers through his hair though it seems it’s now streaked with white. Even his eyes are different. Still blue but not quite as bright. Perhaps he'd wept out all the light within him. She knows she has. It takes her awhile to even notice the cane. Is that why he was sent home? He's wearing khaki fatigue trousers with many a small hole torn through the leg. Seems he never did learn how to sew. His tee hangs loosely on him, looking about a size too big. The war's whittled him down, and he needs a warm welcome.

So why can't she be what he needs?

“You can't be here.”

Her voice is almost a rasp, rough and hoarse from the tears last night's dreaming wrung. It's all she can think of to say.

“I’m home,” he insists, trying to curve his chapped lips into a smile.

He falters by her standards. She hangs her head, casting her gaze downward when he tells her that her most fervent wish really has come true. He wasn't supposed to come back to her like this. She was supposed to give him something worth coming home to. They both thought they'd do their part and help bring the war to an end. _It'll be over soon._ Soon was never soon enough. Soon is still not _now_.

She shakes her head, swallowing the lump in her throat. This isn't what was meant to happen. Peace should have come years ago, when there was still something left of her heart to love him as she should, when there was still something left of her worth loving.

He’s slow to cross the distance between them, leaning on his cane to guide his steps. His hand lands gentle on her shoulder. Once he touches her, she realizes he's solid. The weight of his hand is light but somehow she knows it's truly there. Perhaps she's deluding herself in her grief. What's wrong with that? If delusion offers comfort, who is she to refuse? When she moves to stand, his hand slides off. She can't stop the tremors running through her when she finally turns to look at him. His reflection does no justice to the horrors war has wrought on his body.

She lifts a hand to cup his face, feeling his stubble under her fingertips. The sun outside their window has long departed and shadows play over them both, cloaking them as if to help them hide away from the world. There's so much she longs to say but her mouth refuses to move. Instead, she stands on her toes and lays her lips on his, hoping to convey half a decade's worth of unspoken feeling in the space of a few moments.

It's been five years since they've been this close. She always thought it would feel like no time had passed at all once they met again. Now, she's certain that was just a lie she told herself to keep from going mad. Kissing him now isn't the same. Harsh words have passed her chapped lips on many occasions. Dire circumstances forced her to sharpen her tongue while on the battlefield. And that's not all that's sharp about her. When last they met, she was soft. Now, she's all jutting bones and scarred skin, sharp angles and weather-worn terrain. When did she get to be so... inadequate?

When she comes to this realization, she pulls away, robbing him of balance as his cane topples to the floor. Her hands rise to clap over her mouth and she starts to shake her head again.

“I’m sorry. So sorry.”

**Author's Note:**

> Had this lurking in an old file for a few years now but interest in 13x11 has been dismal so I never thought to publish it. Just ran it through some polish for Simulacraryn.


End file.
